


Anatomy of a Murder Squad

by DoctorSyntax



Category: Castle, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-19
Updated: 2011-08-19
Packaged: 2017-10-22 20:12:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/242115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorSyntax/pseuds/DoctorSyntax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock, who is visiting NYC, stumbles onto a crime scene that Beckett and the boys are working.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anatomy of a Murder Squad

**Author's Note:**

> For [this](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/8651.html?thread=38803147#t38803147) prompt on the Sherlock kinkmeme; I’m only just now getting around to de-anoning. I know the finales of both shows make the timeline for this rather hazy, but it was written before the last episode of Castle aired.

America is so terribly _dull_. John is speaking at a medical conference, presenting an account of his time as a medic in Afghanistan. (He'd offered to get Sherlock a pass to join him at the conference but Sherlock had declined.)

Instead, Sherlock wanders aimlessly through New York City, trying to deduce the masturbation habits of everyone he passes. The task is less absorbing than he'd had hoped, and noon finds him in a coffee shop waiting at the pickup counter next to a man whose ringtone is evidently Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D minor. Sherlock is mildly intrigued, moreso when the first words out of the man's mouth are, "Is there a dead body somewhere in Manhattan, or did you just miss the sound of my voice?"

"No, no, no," the man says. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other and back again: restless, Sherlock notes, when he hadn't been before the phone call. "I've got nothing else to do today. Where is it?" Every inch of the man's posture signals his eagerness to join the caller as soon as possible.

"That's just around the corner, I can be there in ten minutes. I'll bring you a coffee. Don't argue." The man falls silent, then laughs. "See you soon, Detective Beckett." He puts the phone back in his pocket and begins whistling quietly.

Sherlock scrutinizes the man's back, trying to ascertain his occupation. His palpable excitement regarding a murder investigation speaks of an unusual type of mind. Definitely not a cop, he'd've never been allowed to join the force with a disposition like that. His suit was also far too expensive for a civil servant. And yet, he'd been invited to a crime scene by a detective -- one that he seemed to be on fairly intimate terms with, judging by the flirtatious pitch to his voice. He'd made no small talk and had seemed to know what the detective was calling about before he answered the phone, so this was clearly a common occurrence. Moreover, he seemed to be expecting it, because he'd ordered both coffees before the detective had even phoned.

Sherlock blinks. He'd previously thought himself to be the world's only consulting detective, but the man (currently leaving the shop with two cups in his hand) may have just disproved that hypothesis.

Further observation is required, Sherlock decides. He abandons the idea of coffee and tails the man at a discreet distance until they reach the crime scene: an alleyway about four blocks from the coffee shop. He watches the man as he nods to the officer stationed outside the crime scene (who lifts the tape for him, not asking to see a badge -- suggesting the man doesn't have one, or is so powerful he doesn't need one. Sherlock's money is on the former).

Sherlock can't see the body from where he is, but he wants to. He comes to a decision and strides up to the officer, flashing Lestrade's identification at him. "Detective Inspector Lestrade, Scotland Yard," he barks. "I'm here about the murder."

The officer inclines his head in a gesture of respect and lifts the tape for him. "The body's just over there."

"Yes, thank you," Sherlock says impatiently. He steps under and quickly surveys the scene: the man from the coffee shop is talking to a woman and two other men -- witnesses or detectives, probably the latter judging by their attire -- while a gloved woman examines the corpse of a grey-haired man.

Sherlock walks up to the group, notes the cup of coffee in the woman's hand, and extends his hand to her. He directs his most charming smile in her direction. "Detective Beckett, I presume?"

"Can I help you?" she asks, polite but wary. She doesn't shake his hand. "This is a restricted area. How did you get in?"

A stickler for procedure, Sherlock notes, but clearly not expecting her underlings to be particularly competent. He flashes his -- Lestrade's -- badge once more. "Didn't you get the call?" Sherlock asks, then frowns when she shakes her head. "I'm so sorry, I thought you had been told already. I'm Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, from Scotland Yard. I'm here to assist you."

"Detective Kate Beckett," she says slowly. She's looking at him as if she doesn't quite trust him, but continues, "and this is Richard Castle." Sherlock's eyes flick back to the man from the coffee shop; he has a distinct feeling that he once knew, but has since deleted, information about this man.

Detective Beckett gestures to the other two men, who are standing somewhat closer together than most men are comfortable with. "And the rest of my team, Detectives Ryan and Esposito." These names she slurs together slightly, sounding more like _RyanandEsposito_ than two separate names. Interesting.

He drops to his knees next to the corpse, but out of the corner of his eye he sees Detective Beckett give a quiet direction to one of the male detectives, the more boyish looking of the two. Knowing he probably has only a few minutes, Sherlock clears his throat to get the attention of the woman examining the body. He wiggles his fingers at her, and she hands over a pair of gloves.

"Well aren't _you_ adorable," she practically purrs. "I'm Dr. Parish, but you can call me Lanie."

Sherlock realizes that she'll be far more influenced by a charming smile than Detective Beckett, so he does his best to dazzle her. He lowers the pitch of his voice slightly and fixes her with a very special look. “My goodness, Lanie,” he murmurs, “I’d love to take you back to London with me. My medical examiner hasn’t got a patch on you."

She raises an eyebrow, resting her fingertips against her collarbone. "Cute, charming, and an accent to die for. Someone remind me again why I don't live in England?"

"Beckett would miss you too much," Castle clarifies. "She'd pine. I wrote a scene about it in _Heat Rises_ : Lauren Perry, ME extraordinaire and best friend of Nikki Heat, is caught in a steamy clinch in the mortuary with Detective Ochoa--"

" _Where_?" Detective Esposito asks. "The _mortuary_? Castle, you are one freaky dude. Isn't Ochoa married, anyway?"

Castle waves one hand. "Divorced between books. Didn't you read _Naked Heat_?" At Esposito's blank look, Castle sighs. "Anyway, in this new scene, Ochoa and Perry hook up, and Nikki catches them, and she's overcome by this wave of _crushing_ jealousy that she can't understand. In her confused grief she turns to Jameson Rook, who--"

"That's _enough_ , Castle," Detective Beckett interrupts, holding up a hand. Slightly to Sherlock's surprise, Castle shuts his mouth. "Save it for the New York Times," Beckett continues, and directs her attention to Dr. Parish. "What have you got for us, Lanie?"

"Male, approximately sixty years old. Judging by liv and temp I'd put time of death about six hours ago. Cause of death was most likely strangulation, probably with some kind of wire." She points with her pencil at the neck of the victim, where a thin, straight line cuts into the flesh.

"No wallet or identification," Detective Esposito says somewhere above Sherlock. "Uniforms are canvassing nearby but nothing so far."

"You won't find it," Sherlock says absently. "It's still at his residence, where he was murdered."

"How do you know that?" Castle asks.

Sherlock makes a noise halfway between a sigh and a reprimand. "Isn’t it obvious? Look!" He points at the man’s feet. "His suit is perfectly tailored, but he's not wearing a tie. Furthermore, he's wearing house slippers. A man who cared that much about his appearance would never leave home in slippers, without a tie. There's no chance of it. No, he was murdered in his residence and his body was deposited here by the killer."

"First thing I'll do when I get back is run prints and dental," Lanie tells Beckett. "We should be able to get an identification off of that."

Beckett nods absently; Sherlock can tell she is trying to decide what she thinks about the information he's presented her with. "Anything else, Detective Inspector?"

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but is interrupted by the hasty return of Detective Ryan. "Beckett!" the detective calls, trying to catch his breath. "I just got off the phone with Scotland Yard. He's not who he says he is. Their Gregory Lestrade is working a murder in London right now."

Detective Beckett turns on her heel, glaring at Sherlock. "Who the hell are you, then? And what makes you think you can crash my crime scene?"

Sherlock stands, drawing himself to his full height and looking the detective directly in the eyes. "My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I'm a consulting detective. I should think you'd be grateful I'm here, because I can solve this crime much faster than you and your _team_ " -- he pronounces the word distastefully -- "possibly could."

Beckett crosses her arms fixes him with a look. "And why, exactly, is that?"

"Because," Sherlock answers, narrowing his eyes, "you spend more time pretending not to be interested in Richard Castle than you do solving crimes. When he was speaking of his novel, you let him go on long enough for you to get the gist of the story he was telling, which indicates that you're a fan of his work. Yet you cut him off before he got to the part where he describes the interaction between the character he based on you and the character he clearly based on himself, which suggests that you're unwilling to listen to proof of his devotion to you. Why? Guilt, probably, because you hold him at an arm's length despite knowing that he's in love with you."

Castle makes a spluttering noise of objection. Beckett makes a face of disbelief. "What? That's... no. Ridiculous."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Please. He drops everything when you call him, he wrote a character based on you -- that's where I was wrong, he's a _writer_ , not a consulting detective, of _course_ \-- and since we've arrived at this scene he's come up with seven different excuses to touch you. If I were you I would drop this _ridiculous_ charade and put the man out of his misery, because it's obvious you love him as well."

Castle is staring openmouthed, gaze swinging between Sherlock and Detective Beckett (who looks furious, and is blushing even more furiously). Detective Ryan, on the other hand, starts laughing. He steps forward. "I've been waiting two years to hear someone say that to them," he tells Sherlock. "I don't know who you are, but thank you."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, doesn't shake the detective's outstretched hand. "I imagine they've been waiting equally long for someone to point the same thing out to you and your partner." He takes some degree of satisfaction in Detective Ryan's slack-jawed surprise.

"Okay," Detective Esposito says decisively, "it is _way_ past time for you to leave, buddy." He moves to physically escort Sherlock away from the crime scene, but Sherlock holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"I'm leaving," he says. "It was a crime of passion anyway; the killer won't strike again. You've all the time in the world to track her down, which is fortunate since your crime-solving methods are about as efficient as a monkey with a typewriter.

"But if I were you," he calls as he leaves, "I'd make sure his mistress didn't leave town."


End file.
